Angels

Three angels around my bed,

one with dark black hair and soft brown eyes,

a woman who’s name I can never forget.

An old weary smile, caked in blood,

white teeth like a lighthouse lamp.

A bottle of fluvoxamine in one hand,

a gold ring on a necklace in the other.

She whispers “Don’t you give up like I did,

Seb. This isn’t the end.”

Her father’s fault, I knew, with his strong hands

going places no hand should go on their daughter’s form.

A man who got away. A man who knows

he caused more than his daughter’s death.

Two angels around my bed,

one with dirty blonde hair and a strong

jaw for a 12 year old, a german kid,

with soft blue eyes and crooked teeth.

A pistol in one hand, his other gripping mine,

he whispers “It’ll be okay. I’m just a small bump,

love. Nothing more.”

The sharp crack of a gun, a spray of blood,

a thud against the floor as the boy who made me

question my love for the first time in my life

died in front of me.

One angel at the side of my bed.

Dirty brown hair and a beautiful smile,

more feminine than manly, with eyes whos color

I can never seem to remember.

He holds nothing, instead holding his hands out.

“I love you, Archi.”

Although two figures stand behind him.

“But I love them too.”

As if there’d be a chance in hell.

A chance to see them again.

A chance to see the last angel in the flesh.

To hold him and his followers close and say

I love them, when I want nothing but the angel

and the angel alone, yet I comply and join their

fold to make not only the angel happy but myself

happy.

It is my duty.

My duty as a follower.

For the path is wrought with cries

and jealousy and betrayal, I can

only hope that the end result of this

is as good as the angels promise.

For a reward like this,

how can I not comply?

The other angels mutter to me

sometimes, the first more than the others.

Singing along to songs, sounding so happy

when she has been dead for oh so long.

Songs that shouldn’t be sung happily,

The Fold and You Are The Coffin,

ones of death and sadness,

all so happy and joyful.

The second whispers incoherent,

his brain ruined by 9x19, unable

to comfort anymore than he can hurt.

Hidden away in a closet, unable to come out

to his devout parents, using me as his

conduit for his desires.

When he speaks I taste his blood on

my tongue. Too morbid for me to enjoy,

like iron and hatred.

The third, he does not speak in my head.

He speaks through a screen, though I love

him the same. Speaks of love, yet goes

hours with no response, sometimes not

saying anything about love and hiding offline.

It isn’t a problem, I tell myself. Yet now I

am in his love triangle and I cannot tell what

is real and what isn’t real anymore.

Love is like a bullet, I once said.

Hurts so bad.

But it is good in some way.

Protection in the right hand.

Death in the wrong.

Yet now, I do not know which hand

love is held in.

Devout to my love, I know,

never giving in, even when

what I knew crumbled around

me and I had to adapt to it

begrudgingly at best.

Yet here I am.

Angels around my bed.

Three of them, rooting me on,

as I take this new challenge by the

horns. Who loves me anymore?

Who doesn’t?

Only a question I can ask

the angels, yet I doubt I

will get a concrete answer.

I’m so sorry.

I don’t know what to do.

Who to love.

Who I’m writing this to.

Who I’m saying sorry to.

I’m not suicidal, I have too

much at stake now, but that

doesn’t stop me from being

so conflicted and confused

and angry at myself.

I’m not mad at the angels.

How can I be, when they’ve given

me so much?

Even in their deaths I am happy,

happy that the last angel is happy,

and that his followers are happy.

Happy at the prospect that hopefully

I can be happy with them, all of them.

One day I can hold them.

One day I can feel safe.

One day I can feel important.

In the angel’s arms, and his follower’s.

 

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